The Kevlar Throne
by Local Mafia Boss
Summary: An AU of A Song of Ice and Fire, with Modern Weaponry. How will this change the dynamic of the story? Only time will tell...
1. Prologue

**The Kevlar Throne**

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**_Disclaimer:_ I own none of the Characters or Locations of this.**

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**Prologue**

Will leaned against the side of the Humvee, feeling the vibrations as it drove over the compacted snow. They had left Castle Black only 3 hours before, but he still felt uneasy. This was not his first Ranging, but this time it felt different. He fingered his Rifle nervously. It was older than he was; the Night's Watch never retired a weapon whilst it still had use. He felt the Vehicle judder to a halt. Gared called back "Woodland's too thick. Humvee won't go any further"

"We continue on foot" replied Ser Waymar.

As they climbed out of the Humvee, Royce turned to Gared. "Check out ahead. We'll stay with the Humvee"

Gared disappeared into the Woodland, Gun in hand. A few minutes later, he returned.

"50 Wildings. Dead. Look Frozen"

Waymar snorted "It is barely below freezing, and you expect me to believe that 50 Wildlings froze to death? You're mistaken, or lying. Which is it?"

Gared looked at the Boy in disgust. He was pushing 50, but Will knew that if it came to it, he would back Gared over Royce, Southron Gun or no. Royce relented. "Let's go take a look then. We'll see what it was you saw."

As they walked, Will felt the temperature drop. His Combat Fatigues gained a thin layer of Frost, white powder coating the Black. He shivered. Distracted as he was, he almost collided with Gared. The Older man had stopped, in a Clearing. Old Wildling Rifles lay littered over the area. Gared was looking in disbelief. "I… don't understand… The Wildlings are gone."

Royce laughed. "Maybe they woke up?"

"And left their guns?" Gared countered. Waymar frowned, and then shrugged. "Will. Gather up these guns, and then get back to the Humvee. We have wasted enough time here as it is."

Will complied. A few minutes later, with all the guns loaded in the Hummer, he heard a scream.

* * *

Gared was dead. Royce could see that. He had turned away, trying to spot the… thing that had flickered past in the corner of his eye, to no avail, when Gared had screamed in pain, and when he turned back, Gared lay on the floor, a single shard of ice jammed in his throat. Royce shuddered. He unslung his rifle, and called out. "Come out and fight like men. Only cowards hide in the Shadows."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. A White figure, made of ice, strode into the clearing. The temperature dropped, and frost began to creep up the barrel of his Gun. "Others…" he breathed. It had a gun too, but it was unlike any he had seen. It was more angular than any Human Weapon, and made of… he knew not what. It gleamed in the moonlight like metal, but was the blue of ice. Waymar snapped out of his reverie, sunk to one knee, and pumped lead into the advancing Other. Bullets smashed through it, but failed to cause lasting damage. With every shot, the gun grew more icy, through some dark magic, he knew not what. The Other halted, struggling to advance through the hail of fire. Waymar changed Clip expertly, and kept firing, hoping to keep it pinned down. He noticed Wights gathering, but was preoccupied with the Other. He was beginning to drive it back. He began backing slowly away, when the unthinkable happened. The barrel of his gun, now deeply encased in ice, shattered. The Other raised its gun, and Waymar Royce was no more.

* * *

Will remained with the Humvee. It was standard protocol. He was to remain here, and prepare for a hasty escape, whilst the other two dealt with the threat. There was no use in him charging in there, and likely getting shot. But still, the prolonged gunfire made him nervous. But not as nervous as the sudden quiet. He looked up, as Waymar staggered out of the Woods. His eyes glowed blue, and he had lost his gun. Will was terrified, but he knew what needed to be done. Waymar was compromised. Will had to get back to the Wall, had to get back to- He saw an Other, calmly leaving the forest, Wights in it's wake. Will screamed, and his foot slammed the pedal to the floor.

* * *

The Humvee was moving at speed, when it reached Castle Black. The gates were opened, Will had radioed ahead earlier, telling them that Waymar and Gared had made contact with an unknown force, and were engaging. He had gone silent after that, but they kept the Gates open. Will was at the wheel of the Hummer, and he didn't stop, simply carrying on past. Benjen cursed, and, sighing, radioed Winterfell. A few minutes later, he had a reply, from Jon Snow. Jon had been flying for 3 years now, and was undoubtedly the best Pilot in the North, if not all of Westeros.

* * *

Jon loved to fly. He enjoyed the freedom it gave him, the ability to escape from it all. His bastard status. The hatred Lady Stark felt for him. It was all left behind. All down at Winterfell. Up here, it was just him, and the plane. The engines screamed as he brought here down at a steep angle. There was a dot, far below. He continued to dive, until he was only a few hundred metres above the ground. A Humvee, all in black, travelling fast along a dirt track, across Brandon's Gift. Jon prepared a missiles for launch, and opened radio communication with the Night's Watch. With his uncle.

"This is Jon Snow, I have the Hummer in my Sights, permission to launch Missiles?"

"Confirmed"

"Humvee immobilised. Returning to Winterfell"

Meanwhile, by the Humvee, Will cursed. His leg felt broken, and he was stuck, unable to walk. The Humvee burnt behind him, sending acrid smoke into the air, visible for miles around, advertising to the Stark exactly where he was. He knew what was coming. Who was coming.

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**AN: Please review, and tell me what you think. Any feedback would be appreciated. Will probably update at some point. It will jump quite a lot, I'm not all that keen on writing a Chapter for every Chapter RR Martin wrote...**


	2. Chapter 1

**The Kevlar Throne**

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**_Disclaimer:_**** I own nothing.**

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**Chapter One**

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**Several Months Later**

It had taken many months for Will, the deserter, to be able to face sentencing and the following execution. When he had been captured, he had seemed to be in a delusional state; tired, starving and in dire need of rest. Bran had seen him being dragged into Winterfell, as he now saw him face execution. He was nervous. This was going to be the first execution he had ever witnessed, his father deeming him of a satisfactory age to witness his first. His brothers, Robb and Jon (a Snow, who Sansa insisted on referring to as "half-brother") had been to several, but only recently had Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, decided that Bran was old enough. He stood, in the constant, driving Rain, next to Jon and Robb. Lord Stark had taken out Ice, the Valyrian Rifle of the Starks, and stood in front of the bedraggled, terrified man, who murmured quietly to himself. Bran closed his eyes, unwilling to see the deed. Jon leaned over, speaking quietly, "You have to watch. He'll know if you don't"

"Who would?" was Bran's innocent reply.

"Father"

* * *

They were in a Jeep, returning to Winterfell, when Jory slammed on the brakes. The Stark Boys jolted in their seats, causing Bran to grimace. Climbing from the driver's seat, Jory advanced slowly, cautiously, on the mound, in the middle of the Road. Keeping one hand on his Holster at all times, he drew ever closer, until it was obvious what the mound was.

"It's a stag; big one too. What could have killed this I wonder?"

It was true. The stag had claw marks, tearing gaping wounds in its flanks. One of the antlers had broken, halfway down the shaft. Theon Greyjoy, his father's ward, examined the ground around them.

"Blood… Whatever killed it went that way", he said, signalling down a slope, into thick undergrowth, which had been trampled underfoot. They walked slowly, guns in hand. This was no unmoving mound. This was a viscous killer, and it could kill again. Of that, they had no doubt. As they walked, they saw what it was, and it left them all shocked. A mass of metal and fur, in a pool of blood.

"Direwolf…" Jory breathed in disbelief. "Hasn't been one seen south of the wall generations."

By now, Eddard had managed to catch up with his sons, and stood behind the boys, Ice in hand, expression betraying nothing.

"It lies dead. What killed it?" he enquired to the crowd that had gathered. Moments later, he spied the antler, jammed deep in the Direwolf's throat.

Direwolves were created by the Children of the Forest, many generations before. These animals were like Wolves, but larger, and Genetically Modified, which caused them to grow metal on their bodies, and made them faster, stronger and more viscous than anything else in this world. Feared and respected in equal measure, in the North, Ned was unsure how to proceed.

"Father, Look!" Robb exclaimed, in excitement. Ned looked up, and saw what Robb had found. 5 Direwolf Cubs, 2 female, and 3 male. Ned shuddered.

"Can we keep them?" Bran asks, eagerly. Ned sighed, before replying. "No. We cannot. Direwolves are dangerous, and they will probably not survive to the end of this Month. And Winter is Coming; it will be cleaner if I kill them."

Jon stopped, contemplating the Cubs, and looked at Ned. His eyes locked with Ned's, and he spoke quietly "There are 3 males, and 2 females. You have 3 sons, and 2 daughters. They are fated to have these Cubs. It would be showing disrespect to the Gods if you killed them; an ill omen."

Bran realised what his brother was trying to do, omitting his name from the children of Ned, in a bid to get them the cubs, and he was deeply grateful. "But I have 4 sons." Ned observed.

"The Direwolf is the symbol of House Stark. I am not a Stark, merely a Snow." It took some time for Ned to contemplate the situation, but eventually he acceded.

"You have to care for them each yourself. I will not allow my Children to shirk from their responsibilities." Ned's decision gave huge relief to Bran, who quickly picked up a cub and decided it was his. Robb, too, picked up another cub – and quickly found himself bonding with it.

As they began the return to the Jeep, Jon spotted something. A smudge of white, against the dull brown and green of the hillside. He approached, and to his pleasant surprise found another Direwolf Cub, which had crawled away from the others; an albino. It was almost like a… "Ghost" Jon whispered to himself, yet the wind carried the word to Bran's ears.

When the Starks returned to Winterfell, they were met by an agitated Lady Stark.

"The King and his Retinue are coming. They will be here within 3 days. There is so much to do…" she said hurriedly, beginning to panic, as Ned and his sons got out of the Jeep.

"It will be alright. Jory, get my guard ready…" Ned began.

The time passed quickly, and all too soon, the Starks caught sight of the Baratheon Convoy. 20 of the most advanced Helicopters buzzed around one, slow but majestic Heliplane, which was in the Crown Colours. A large craft, the Bryn V-12 was a crossbreed between an aircraft and a helicopter, and it projected an image of grandeur fit for a King. As they approached, the Ground Crew on the Runway scattered. The V-12 hit the Tarmac with a noticeable thud. It slowed to a halt, as the Helicopters touched down in a circle around it. One of the Helicopters, painted with the White of the Kingsguard, touched down closest to the Heliplane and the Kingguard quickly exited the craft to commit to their duty of protecting the King.

The plane doors lowered towards the ground. A huge, sweating brute of a man walked down the stairs, breathing heavily while doing so. Robert was followed by his wife, Queen Cersei Lannister and their three children Joffrey, Tommen and Mycella Baratheon.

"NED!" Robert bellowed in greeting "It's been 9 years, and you haven't changed a bit!"

"I can't say the same" Ned replied, an all-too rare smile breaking out on his face. Robert laughed loudly "As always, you speak the truth, Ned". All they got from the Queen was one tight smile, who stood behind her husband proudly.

As the laughter died, Robert spoke; "I want to see her. I want to see her, Ned". Ned was once more overcome by the grief that always lived in his heart, but he loved Robert for asking, despite the pain it caused him. Even after all these years, Robert had never forgotten Lyanna.

The Queen, of course, objected. Yet Robert was not one to listen, the years hadn't changed that quality of his. "Quiet Woman, I have to pay my respects", saying it louder that he needed to, but then Robert had never been quiet. And that was the end of the matter.

When they returned, the King looked deeply affected by Lyanna's tomb, in the Crypts.

"You shouldn't have buried here here Ned. She deserved to be under the sun".

"It was her wish Robert, not mine. And a Stark belongs in the crypts of Winterfell".

"The years truly haven't changed you. But I am here for another matter. Jon Arryn is dead. I am here to ask you to become Hand of the King." He told Ned. Ned had heard the news, and he knew when a frantic Cat had told him the King would be in Winterfell in such a short period of time what it meant.

"I will consider it." Ned replied, knowing that Robert was not going to take no for an answer.

Robert turned, and addressed his assembled Kingsguard and the Starks Guard, and their sons.

"On the Morrow, we shall hunt" he bellowed. "Let's see what game there is in the North" he decreed, to a loud cheer.

"I will not be going. Hunting is not my sort of thing" Jaime Lannister broke in, to widespread laughter.

"You kill men with ease, but blanch at the shedding of animal blood. I will never understand you Lannisters" Robert laughed, and patted him on the back – an action the Lannister was clearly uncomfortable with, perhaps explaining why Robert did it.

Ned Stark had accepted the Handship. Jon Snow had quickly realised, then, that he would be abandoned at Winterfell with Catelyn, who had made a big point about refusing to go to King's Landing. He shuddered involuntarily. Robb, Ned and the Lannister boys were going on the Hunt, but it was not honourable for a Bastard to ride with the King. Bran was running around somewhere, saying goodbye to the Castle and people in it. Winterfell guards patrolled the walls. Everything was in its place. Except Jon. He had never had a place, not at Winterfell. He remembered talking to his uncle. Benjen Stark had never fit in either. The Wall had been the place for him. Maybe it was, also, the place for Jon?

Jon spied Bran climbing in the distance. He loved to climb, despite his mother's fear. More than a dozen times he had witnessed Lady Catelyn angrily scold Bran, nigh, scream at him to stop climbing. But Bran was Bran, and he loved climbing with all his heart. Jon smiled to himself. He spotted Bran nearing the top of the old abandoned tower. Gods knew how long it had been since the last time someone had occupied it, or even been inside. He reached the top and-

Bran had fallen. He lay on the grass, outside Winterfell. Jon feared for his brother's life, and hoped Bran had only broken a few bones. His Direwolf, as yet unnamed, sniffed at his face, whimpering. Jon rushed to Bran and stood, looking in disbelief. Bran never fell. Never. And yet, he had. What else could have happened? Glancing up, Jon thought he saw a flash of Gold, but when he looked again, nothing. He dismissed it, and quickly got to work calling the guard to help

get Bran up from the ground. It seemed like his back was broken, and Jon grew more worried with each passing moment for the health of his brother.

"But I don't care that the Stark brat fell. There are too many of them anyway. What does it even matter if there is one less Stark in the world" Joffrey whined.

Tyrion slapped him. "It is what is expected of you. They have likely noted your absence as it is. Now go, or I will hit you again"

"You… you slapped me. You'll regret that, Dwarf." With that parting remark, Joffrey left the room.

Tyrion despised his Nephew. The boy was a sociopath, and he dreaded the day Joffrey would be crowned King, hoping the Gods gave the boy some sense before that and he didn't turn into another Aerys. The boy had no grasp of the implications of his actions, and Tyrion was sure that would cause the Lannisters problems in the future. But what could he do? He was just a dwarf. Laughing depreciatingly, he went in search of Alcohol and a Whore.

As Joffrey stormed through Winterfell, a dark look on his face, he spied a Direwolf, howling with all its might. He would show the Starks. He pulled Lion's Tooth out of its Holster, and walked towards the Direwolf. It stopped howling, and whined. Joffrey smiled. Not a nice smile. A smile which would have better fitted a Shark. He pushed the Pistol against the flank of the Wolf, and fired. It dropped to the ground, whining. Joffrey smiled. He had 5 more bullets loaded, and the wolf wasn't going anywhere.

Sansa reflected, as she sewed, that some things would never change. Sewing would always be sewing, whilst in Winterfell, and when she was in King's Landing. She sewed, her daughters would sew, and her mother had sewn. Maybe it was the permanence of it that she liked. The Septa roused herself. It had been a long session, and Arya's hands were bleeding from several attempts to thread the needle. The Septa dismissed them, and Sansa headed out, proud of her latest work. Arya could not sew, or do anything remotely ladylike and Sansa found it terribly amusing, more than what a Lady should find it. As she headed out, Sansa heard the shots, while leaving the Septa's chamber. She had been sewing, and left Lady, her own Direwolf, tied up outside the Tower. She realised that she could only hear 5 Direwolves now. Walking as fast as was possible whilst remaining Ladylike, she rounded the Tower, and froze. There was her beloved Joffrey, holding a gun, gilded gold, firing at Lady, who was whimpering pathetically, as if she knew she was dead. Sansa screamed.

Jon was the first to arrive. Sansa lay on the floor, having fainted. Joffrey stood, holding a smoking gun, over the ruined corpse of Sansa's Direwolf. By the time this had registered, others had arrived. Robb ran straight to his sister, helped her up, and led her away in tears. The hunting party had returned hours ago, full of concern for Bran. The King advanced on his son, with a look of true disgust on his face.

"You little scumbag!" Robert shouted, and hit his son. Even now, after years of Gluttony and laziness, Robert was strong enough to send Joffrey flying. The boy hit the ground, and lay there, unconscious. Robert turned to see where Robb had taken Sansa, and waddled as fast as he could to reach her. Jon could hear his 'profuse' and 'sincere' apology from where he was. He could also hear Sansa's furious retort. He heard her when she shouted where the King could stick the Engagement between her and Joffrey. He heard from Arya later, that Sansa did not take it well when it was pointed out to her by Arya that a lady would not have been so rude, especially to her King, and that Sansa had thus not acted in a ladylike fashion. Jon had laughed at that, before he gave Arya the gift he had chosen for her. It was a small, snub-nosed little revolver, which Arya named Northern Sister. She had hugged him like her life depended on it, before tearfully wishing him goodbye.

It was early the next morning, when Ned and Arya boarded the heliplane, to go to King's Landing with the rest of the Royal Family. Robb, Sansa, Rickon and Catelyn Stark watched as the heavy V-12 took to the skies surrounded by the heavy entourage of helicopters protecting the large aircraft. Jon was going to join the Night's Watch, and was busy packing when he saw the massive aircraft lift from the ground and fly southward. Rickon, only 6 years old, was distraught, and wept as the heliplane left. A few hours later, he stopped crying for long enough to ask "Where's Daddy? I want Daddy. Why did Daddy leave? When will Daddy come back?"

This had gone on for several hours, until Catelyn finally took him aside, and explained to him that Daddy had to go to the Capital, and wouldn't be back for a while, but that he would come back. She hated having to explain this to him. The Capital was a dangerous place, and she knew she might be lying to Rickon. The thought made her sick, but what was she to say? And Rickon could not keep crying either, he was a boy of six, and he was a Stark. And he had to be ready, because Winter was Coming.

She looked out the window of where Bran was sleeping, and saw the Night's Watch Helicopter touching down, its twin rotors slowing to a stop. Barely a second later, Jon entered the room, and Catelyn glared at him viciously. If looks could kill, Jon would have been dead on the floor the moment he stepped into the room. She had never warmed to him, a constant reminder of Ned's infidelity, although he had despised him less over the years. However a good deal of hate was still present within her towards him. He looked the most like Ned out of all his children, although Bran would come in a close second, and that had caused her a great deal of worry. "I'm only here to say goodbye" he stated quietly, before moving to the other side of the bed. "Bran, I don't know when I will get to see you again. I wish I could have said goodbye in better conditions, but I will let you know you have been a brother people dream to have."

"He is not your brother" Catelyn interjected with venom.

"I really hope you get better soon" Jon continued, unfazed from the side remark but a tear coming to his eye. "And the next time I see you, you are climbing up the battlements to greet me, although you may be too old for that by then. Till next time Bran, goodbye".

"It should have been you Jon. It should have been you" She said emotionally distraught, as Jon turned and got out of the room. A few minutes later, she saw him striding towards the helicopter, in Arctic clothing. From the look of it, the Helicopter had been all over Westeros, giving it a curiously weathered look, having been blasted with Dornish Heat, buffeted by the Winds of the Stormlands, and lashed with rain in the Riverlands. And now it was going to the Wall, where it would be given a permanent coating of Frost. No wonder the Night's Watch had to keep repainting their vehicles. It took off, and she watched it go. She felt no sadness at Jon's departure, and a small part of her bitterly hoped that the helicopter crashed somewhere.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Kevlar Throne**

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**_Disclaimer:_**** I own nothing, Jon Snow**

**Chapter Two**

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Daenerys Targaryen stood, rooted to the spot by terror. A Dothraki horde had ridden to the gates of Pentos, and the leader, Khal Drogo, was to be her husband. They rode in atop hulking Motorbikes, which steamed slightly in the light drizzle. The man walked towards her, his biking leathers soaked by the rain.

* * *

Two of the Dothraki were fighting over a woman. Their shotguns remained sheathed; to fire a gun at a wedding was instant death; the Bloodriders of the Khal would have you dead before the shot reached its target. Their butterfly knives flickered, as they darted back and forth, each slice a killing blow, if it were to land, but even in their leathers, the Dothraki were agile. The party had quietened, as the Dothraki strained to see who would emerge victorious. Eventually, one of the men slipped up, dodging a second too late. With a butterfly knife buried deep in his chest, he toppled forwards.

The moment broken, the party was joined once more.

* * *

The Dothraki moved fast, across the Mountains. Daenerys bore witness to this, as she rode her own bike. A small bike, not like the brutes riden by the Dothraki. She had seen the horde fall upon many trading caravans, and knew now why Viserys wanted them as an ally. The brutality of their attack terrified her. Guns blazing, and knives flashing, they killed every one of the "Lamb Men" that defended the Caravan. That night, Daenerys realised she was pregnant. The set off towards Vaes Dothrak post haste.

* * *

Upon reaching the Dothraki City, nestled deep within the Mountains they called home, Daenerys was surprised to find that the Bikes were left out of the city, and the Dothraki continued on foot.

"It is disrespectful to take them into the City. The Crones dislike technology." Doreah told Daenerys, when she asked. "And no weapons either" she continued.

The Dothraki traditions demanded Daenerys eat a Horse's Heart, and the crones would use that to distern what her child's fate would be. She felt sick just doing it, but were she to not, it would mean death, and the horde would break up, fleeing the misfortune. As she tore pieces off, she reflected that it wasn't so much the taste of the heart, as the texture. As she struggled to keep the bite down, she dimly saw her brother stalking out of the room. She swallowed, and took another bite.

"And your child shall be the Stallion that shall mount the world" the crones proclaimed, swaying slightly. It was at this point that Viserys burst into the chamber, brandishing Ser Jorah's pistol.  
"You think that her child will be King? I will be the King! You have woken the Dragon, and shall pay! First her, then all of you. For I am the only one with a weapon. You can't touch me, and I can kill you!" Viserys laughed, and pointed the gun at Daenerys. He pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. Drogo walked over to him, and forced him to his knees.

"You want to be King?" Drogo asked, in broken Westerosi

"You promised me a Crown" Viserys replied

"Very well. I shall give you a crown of gold" Drogo told Viserys, dropping his belt into a furnace.

"That's… That's all I wanted…" Viserys said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Drogo turned like lightening, and tipped molten gold over Viserys's head.

Viserys screamed, for a moment, and then toppled, the gold clanging noisily as it hit the ground.

As she looked at the still steaming corpse of her brother, Daenerys spoke quietly "He was not truly the dragon. A true dragon cannot be killed by fire"

* * *

**AN: So it's a short chapter. Sue me. Also, I changed the Dothraki Landscape around. Plains didn't really fit. Sped it up as well. Not enough stuff happens that isn't smutty.**


	4. Chapter 3

**The Kevlar Throne**

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**_Disclaimer:_**** I own nothing, Jon Snow**

**Chapter Three**

**Night's Watch – 1500 men or so**

**Castle Black – 800**

**Shadow Tower – 200**

**Eastwatch-by-sea - 500**

* * *

Jon Snow reached the Wall, aboard the helicopter, within a few days. As they had travelled, Jon began to regret joining the Night's Watch. The men he was to call brother were disgraceful. Rapers and murderers, the lot of them. Jon sighed. He had known, as soon as he had arrived, that his being a Ranger was out of the question.

* * *

The Castle Black Master-at-Arms, Ser Alliser Thorne, had approached Jon when the helicopter had landed.

"I hear you're quite the pilot, Bastard"

"Sir?" Jon replied, unsure what the man wanted.

"Can you fly planes, Bastard?" Ser Thorne had replied, irritation clear in his voice.

"Yes, sir" Jon replied

"Very Good. You aren't my problem then. Report to the Eastern gate. You're going to Eastwatch"

* * *

The black hummers used by the Night's Watch were nothing like those the Starks used. The suspension was knackered, the tyres torn, and the windows cracked by the cold. He had been attached to a ranger along the wall, travelling to Eastwatch, as the Night's Watch couldn't afford to fly a helicopter along the wall just to deliver a recruit.

Eastwatch, the base of the Night's Watch's Air Force, was almost as large as Castle Black, with 500 men, mostly those of the Aerial Reconnaissance and Assault forces, but also a smattering of builders, stewards and a few rangers. The navy to, was based at Eastwatch, but numbering a mere 15 ships, bolstered the force minimally.

When Jon first arrived, he was expecting to be put to flying planes, but was quickly pulled short, when the Commander of Eastwatch spoke to the assembled recruits, who shivered in the cold.

"Recruits. I am your commander, Cotter Pyke. Welcome to Eastwatch. You all volunteered to come here, rather than stay at Castle Black, or go to the Shadow Tower. Many of you volunteered to undertake training for the Air Force, likely imagining yourself in the seat of a Fighter Plane, blasting over the Wildlings at high speed, missiles blasting, playing the hero. That is not what you will be doing. The Night's Watch struggles with obtaining Cargo Planes, like the old girl over there", he told them, indicating a battered cargo plane, cockpit glass shattered, its black paint peeling.

"Most of you will find yourselves flying these planes, when your training is complete. But some of you, and we will swiftly find out who, will be moved on to more advanced training. Helicopters. The Night's Watch has 42 helicopters, 37 of which are based here, at Eastwatch. Those of you selected will be flying these. The pride of my little fleet, they are the most important asset the Night's Watch has. Training will be tough, but by the end of it, you will too."

The Recruits applauded politely, before a harsh voice cut across them.

"Fresh Meat! Assemble in two orderly lines. Those that have flown before, and those that haven't"

The voice came from a hulk of a man, a Northerner by the look of him. Jon hurriedly complied, and found himself in a line with 3 or 4 other recruits.

The Northerner approached.

"I shall be training those of you that know the basics already. You 5, come with me"

* * *

They had been training together for two weeks now, and Jon had still not made any friends amongst his brothers. In fact, he was often cornered on the ground, and beaten. He didn't bother reporting it. If the Watch had cared, they would have dealt with it.

It was after a particularly bad beating that Jon, who was leaning against the wall of the hangar, trying to stem the flow of blood from a particularly deep cut, given to him by Rast, an ill-educated, aggressive lout of a boy.

"You know, if you didn't act so arrogant when training, you would not beaten when you landed" a voice cut through Jon's thoughts.

"I don't understand" Jon replied

The owner of the voice, Ser Donal Noye, considered for a minute "They're scared of you. They know that, one on one, you would kill any one of them. So they group together, for protection"

"What do you suggest I do then?" Jon asked, then winced, as the stab wound in his shoulder stubbornly refused to be staunched.  
Donal considered "Tell them how you beat them, and what they need to watch out for"

The next day, still sore from his beating, Jon did as Noye suggested.

Within the week, Jon had firm friends in Pyp and Grenn.

* * *

Then Samwell Tarly arrived. Fat and unhealthy as he was, he had flown as a child, and took to it like a duck to water. But he was craven.

They still had to learn infantry combat, even if they were to be pilots, because, as the Master-of-Arms told them, on the battlefield, things can change in an instant. Whoever he was partnered to, it always went the same. Sam swung a slow, weak blow, and lost his sword immediately, when they blocked. He would then curl up in a ball, and face whatever beating they wanted to give.

Jon was horrified by his treatment, and stood in his defense as often as he could. But as a result, Sam felt that he was protected by proximity to Jon, and so never left him. Jon talked to those that liked and respected him, and they began to simply pull Sam to his feet after downing him. But some, like Rast, refused to see sense. Eventually, Jon took an active hand, sneaking into his room, and setting Ghost on him. In order to save his own life, Rast swore to never again beat Sam. Jon was most pleased; justice had been done.

* * *

It wasn't much later than these incidents that they graduated. Jon felt a slight twinge of regret that he wouldn't be a ranger, like his uncle, but mostly, he was filled with a sense of pride, and accomplishment.

Jon was a courier during peacetime, but when the Night's Watch went to war, he would take one of the helicopters, and fly over the Wall, to the Lands beyond the Wall, to defend the Night's Watch. Jon was proud of his role.

Cotter Pyke, Commander of Eastwatch, wrote a letter to Jeor Mormount, telling him that Benjen still had not made contact, or been seen, since disappearing beyond the wall. Jon was given the message, and was on the postal run between Eastwatch, where the post arrived, and the other two castles, so he slipped the letter into his pocket, and prepared the helicopter for flight

* * *

Winds buffeted the helicopter, whilst blizzards pounded it. Jon struggled with the controls, desperately trying to keep it away from the Wall. Ghost growled ceaselessly, and Jon's face was set in a scowl. Visibility was low in the dark, and the blizzard only made it worse. Jon knew he was next to the Wall, but he didn't know where. He could have gone past Castle Black, and not even noticed. He smiled despite himself. Commander Pyke would kill him.

Hours past, until Jon saw a glow on the horizon. His face broke into a smile. Castle Black. Food. Warmth. The glow promised all these things

Jon landed the helicopter as best he could. The blizzard made visibility low, and the snow was compacted, making for a difficult landing. The helicopter landed, and skittered across the ice, stopping mere inches away from the nearest building. Jon climbed out, and directed the Stewards to unload the mail, before walking to the Lord Commander's Tower.

"Lord Commander Mormont?"

"Who is it?"

"Jon Snow from Eastwatch. I have a message from Cotter Pyke"

"Come in"

Jon came in, and he and Mormont discussed the strength of Eastwatch, and the loss of the First Ranger. The discussion went on for a few hours, and was only ended when Bowen Marsh entered, and told them that the weather had continued to worsen, and that only winter helicopters could be flown. Mormont told Jon that he could sleep in the quarters of Mormont's steward, as the position was empty.

* * *

Jon was awakened in the middle of the night by Ghost's whines. Looking up, he saw Ghost throwing himself bodily against the door. Taking his gun out of his holster, Jon left his room. Ghost immediately ran up the staircase. Jon followed, up to the Lord Commander's quarters.

Entering the room, he found the Lord Commander on the floor, with a bleeding wound in the shoulder. Standing over him was a wight, holding a frozen pistol. Jon lifted his pistol, and shot it. The wight crumpled, and then stood up. Jon cursed, and fired on it again. This time, it ignored the wound, charging him again. Jon emptied his magazine into the Wight. The repeated hits mangled its left hand, and the hand fell to the floor. Jon watched as it skittered on the floor. It rushed towards him, climbing up his leg. Jon swatted at it desperately, but without success. The hand closed around his throat, but he grabbed it, and flung it into the fire. It caught immediately, bursting into flames. Jon slid to the ground gasping for breath.

The Wight dropped its gun, unable to hold it one handed. Jon, meanwhile, reached into the fire, ignoring the pain, and grabbed a burning log from the blaze. The Wight had picked Mormont up, and was choking the life out of him. Jon advanced behind it, whilst Ghost leapt at him, tearing chunks out of its legs. The Wight turned, and Jon smashed the flaming log into it. It swiftly caught, and the Wight let out a heart stopping screech. Jon lifted Mormont to his feet, and together they fled the tower, as the fire spread throughout the room. Ghost ran ahead, ears flat to his head, fearful of the blaze.

* * *

Jon had been kept at Castle Black for two weeks whilst his hand healed. It was healed now, and he was preparing to take off, when the Lord Commander rushed towards him. Jon sighed, and turned to talk to him.

"I wanted to thank you for saving my life. So I want you to have this" Mormont told Jon, handing him a Valyrian Steel Pistol.

"I couldn't possibly – " Jon began.

Mormont cut him off "Why not? It's not like anyone else is going to use it. I'm getting old, boy. My son has fled to the free cities, and my daughter cannot inherit. I want you to have it."

"Yes sir" Jon replied

"Oh, and pass this letter onto Pyke, please" Mormont continued.

Jon nodded, and started the engine. Moments before he took off, he remembered something

"Lord Commander!" he shouted "What's the gun called?"

"Longclaw" came the reply.

* * *

As Jon flew, he examined the pistol. The grip had a Direwolf's head carved into the bottom. He assumed it had not always done so, as the carving was a lighter colour than the rest of the ivory grip. He shrugged. He couldn't tell.

* * *

Jon handed the notice to Commander Pyke, who quickly read it.

"Gods save us. The Lord Commander has ordered a Great Ranging beyond the wall"


	5. Chapter 4

**The Kevlar Throne**

* * *

**_Disclaimer:_****I own nothing, Jon Snow**

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Catelyn Stark hadn't left her son's side for the weeks Ned had been away. Robb was floundering, she knew, but she could not leave Bran. Not like this.

She heard the door open behind her. She turned, and saw Robb. He was dithering by the door.

"I could come back later… Or just leave? It isn't that important anyway" he mumbled, turning to leave.

"No. I'm sorry. I understand you are struggling. Come, sit with me. What's wrong?"

* * *

Hours later, Robb left, smiling. Cat was pleased. She wasn't failing all her children. She turned back to Bran, who continued to lie there, pale. Motionless. She was dimly aware of some commotion outside, but she dismissed it. She heard the door open behind her, she turned, and she screamed.

* * *

The man was of medium build, with dank, greasy hair, and deep, sunken eyes. He held a dagger in his right hand, and was muttering to himself.

"Weren't supposed to be no one here but the boy."

"What are you doing?"

"It's a kindness, really. He's not living. Not really"

Catelyn realised what he was here to do, and threw herself at him. Her full body weight hit him hard. He was shoved backwards, into the wall. That was when she realised that his dagger was now firmly embedded in her leg, which promptly gave out beneath her.

Catelyn lay on the floor, her vision blurred. She saw the man pulling the dagger from her leg. Funny. It didn't hurt. Her vision was darkening. Seconds before everything went black, she saw a large, grey shape shoot over her head.

* * *

Robb heard the man scream first. A deep bellow, which was cut off short. Shortly afterwards, he heard Bran's wolf –Bran hadn't even named it before the accident– howling.

Robb grabbed Ice from where it was balanced against the wall at the bottom of the tower. He rushed in, threw the door open, and froze, taking in the scene.

His mother, unconscious on the floor, a deep wound in her thigh, bleeding heavily.

His brother, slowly coming around, his eyes open for the first time in weeks, the first time since the fall.

A man, dead, sprawled over Bran's bed, in a pool of blood.

The Direwolf, muzzle blooded, sniffing curiously at the dead man.

* * *

Days later, when she could walk again, Catelyn finally was able to inspect the blade. Valyrian Steel. Not something a footpad would normally carry. It was engraved on both sides.

"Hear me Roar" on one side, and "Ours is the Fury" on the other. She considered this.

She concluded that the Lannisters must have taken the blade from the Royal Armoury, to give to this footpad.

"They think they can kill the son of Ned. The Lion has attacked the wolf pack. Will we stand idly by whilst they attack our children? No! I am taking a force south, to plead to the King, that the Lannisters are brought before him for their crimes" Catelyn was addressing assembled Sworn Swords of the Starks.

* * *

Days later, she was flying south, with a force of around 30 men. Looking out of the window, she could see her Ancestral lands, the Riverlands, below her. The castles looked like toys below them. She had never truly become accustomed to air travel, but she needed to get to King's Landing, and fast.

* * *

Going to King's Landing had been a total bust. The King had been drunk out of his skull, and simply laughed off her accusations. Her husband had taken her seriously, and told her what he had pieced together about the Golden Twins. It was to come to a head that night, and he wanted her out of the city. However, as they had left, she had seen the Imp, about to board a plane, probably to Casterly Rock or somewhere else in the Westerlands. She didn't even think "seize him." She ordered. Her men jumped to it, grabbing the dwarf, and dragging him, protesting, into the plane.

"Tyrion Lannister. You are under arrest for the murder of Jon Arryn, and conspiring to murder Bran Stark"

"I never…"

"Silence, Dwarf"

* * *

Tyrion looked around, but saw no friendly faces. That is, other than the co-pilot of the plane. He smiled at the dwarf, and winked.

The flight went on for hours. He had pieced together by now, that they were flying to the Vale. He also knew the name of the co-pilot. 'Bronn'

He had also been told, by Bronn, that the principle role of the co-pilot is to defend the plane from attack.

Tyrion stored this information away, for future reference

* * *

The plane landed in the Vale, and a tram carried them up to the Eyrie. Upon arrival, Tyrion was taken before the Lady of the Eyrie.

"Imp. You shall be tried tonight, by the Lord of the Vale"

"I want to see the dwarf fly, mother"

Tyrion sighed. His trial could have only one outcome. The boy would find him guilty, and he would be thrown out of the Moon Door. Although, an idea was beginning to form.  
"I demand a trial by combat." He spoke quietly, and no one noticed.

"I demand trial by Combat!" He was shouting now, and the sudden noise startled the child, who begun to cry.

"Fine, Dwarf. Name your champion."

"I name my brother, Jaime Lannister, as my champion. Send the message to King's Landing. He will arrive within the week, I'm sure"

"Your brother is not here. You must have a champion that is within this castle, Imp"

"Will no one stand as my champion?"

The challenge echoed around the empty hall, for a few minutes, before someone stood and responded.

"I will stand for the dwarf."

It was Bronn, of course. The Valesmen had selected their champion, Ser Vardis Egen, and the Trial would occur the next day. Tyrion was pleased to see the look of uncertainty on Lady Stark's face. This was not what she had imagined would happen in the Vale, not by any stretch.

* * *

The duel began. The men, Bronn in a lightly padded kelvar vest, Egen in a full combat armour, complete with neck armour and a heavy helmet.

They stood, 10 paces apart.  
"Let the duel begin"

Bronn was already moving, as he fired. The bullet, the only one in the chamber, hit Egen's leg. Hard. Egen's shot sent marble chips flying off a pillar. Despite the pain, Egen smiled. The duel was to be a close combat affair. Egen reached back, and pulled out his blade, a rapier. He could dimly see that the other man, Bronn, was carrying a combat knife. Gods, but he was quick.

* * *

An hour passed, with Bronn dancing out of range, inflicting cut after cut on Egen. Eventually, Bronn judged that the man had lost enough blood.

"Ser Egen! Ser Egen!"

Bronn's voice drew the attention of the knight, who grunted. Bronn had sliced a tendon open on his right arm, so he was unable to carry his sword properly. But if he could just get a grip on the man, he could choke the life out of him. With this in mind, Ser Vardis charged at Bronn.

His eyesight limited by the visor, Egen merely saw the world tilting downwards, towards the open moon door. And he fell.

* * *

Tyrion and Bronn were both sent out of the Vale, allowed to leave. As they walked, Tyrion smiled. He was free.


End file.
